That Look
by belle-kell
Summary: Instead of thinking about everything, maybe Kyle should have just concentrated on the person in front of him. And that person... well, lets just say Stan has a lot on his mind, too. Style, one-shot.


_She's not good enough for him._

I swear, whenever I see them holding hands in the hallway, or that tender glance he casts her way as they are parting for classes, and his hand slowly untangles and slips from hers… that thought always crosses my mind.

I mean, it's not that I think that I could ever be good enough. My hair that curls and bunches up like a pig's tail, except more awkwardly, and my body figure that's way too scrawny, not all curvy and soft like hers is. And honestly… the whole idea kind of pisses me off. Because I know that even with that cute little face, her figure that's probably enviable to any female around her, and with the way she walks all delicately down the hallways in an aura of "I'm gorgeous but I'm not aware of it because I'm a sweetie like that," she's not good enough for him, either. Then again, who could be? Who could possibly ever even measure up to deserving his affections, his considerate actions and words… no one.

But that doesn't mean he can't be with someone who he _thinks_ is good enough. If she makes him happy, then I, his very closest friend… surely I should root him on. Isn't that what everyone else is doing? All Kenny ever does is tells him how lucky he is, and if he ever gets bored of her then he should pass the poor girl onto him like a piece of fucking meat. But, who am I to complain about what Kenny says to him… god.

I just want Stan so bad.

And that's why it's wrong, and it _hurts _to hear Cartman fucking talking about how good it must feel to fuck Wendy like a dog or some crazy shit like that. But it _shouldn't _hurt, and I should be joining along or something, even if Stan glares and gets all pissed off at the way Cartman is wording it. He's in love with her… and I get it.

I have a dick.

And to me, that's a fucking _handicap_, and now apparently I'm a fag. A self-proclaimed fag, even though I wouldn't dare tell anyone. Not even my best friend… god, if Stan knew, we probably wouldn't be able to share a bed anymore, or showering in gym class would be very, very uncomfortable… he wouldn't stop talking to me, though. He might talk, er, a little _differently_ or something, but I don't believe that he would ever abandon me completely because of my sexuality. And, well, it's more like I just have a specific preference, because I'm not necessarily attracted to dicks or balls or anything ‒ I just kind of want my best friend to fuck me so hard that I can't feel anything below the waist the next day.

… Fuck it, I'm scum. I know.

He's friggin' perfect, and that's the only way to put it. And honestly, he's probably a little off-put right now, because I can only stare down at the cold pavement as we're walking down the street towards his house, probably about to embark on a nine-hour-long video game streak, like every Friday night. But he's looking at me in concern, because I can't get my mind off this, and it's been getting harder and harder to look him in the eyes lately. It's like the intensity of his gaze is beating into my soul with a jack-hammer, though, and he's totally doing it on purpose to get me to yell out whatever's wrong like some crazy person. And, normally, I probably would. But right now, all I wanna do is think and over-analyze our entire friendship, since we were toddlers.

"Fucking _hell_, Kyle. Will you please start off on a rant or something?" I hear, and take the hard punch he gives my shoulder like it's nothing. He does, however, notice that I'm not protesting, and that's probably bothering him. I know that's something that _would _bother him, anyways, so really I'm just assuming like I'm some prick who knows everything.

"Ah, sorry," I mutter, looking up at him and his concerned face, dark eyebrows tilted downwards in frustration with me. I'm usually set off on a rant on these kinds of days, about Cartman and his ways and mannerisms. But today, on a drizzly and slushy day in Colorado, all I can think of it how he looked at her in the hall. How he _always _looks at her… but I guess I'm just being extra sensitive today, or being more of an asshole. "I'm just thinking about stuff, dude."

Stan sighs, and puts a tender hand to my shoulder, patting it in a sympathetic way. "Alright, fine. I'll bite. What are you thinking about," he says it like it's a statement, not a question. That somehow makes me think that I'm bothering him, so of course, I just glance back to the cold pavement, and shut up.

He looks back at me, visually shocked by my sudden lack of speech, and remarks, "wow, Kyle. Something's really bothering you, huh?" his words are slightly softer. And he hasn't removed his hand, yet. For some reason, I feel kinda privileged to have it there, just resting casually.

"Nah. I just ‒ dude, do you ever wonder if Kenny and Butters have, like… a thing?" I feel the unrest in Stan's expression, and I look up at him in curiosity. I know that I totally just lied to him, or something close to a lie, since that wasn't what I was thinking about at all. But, in actually, I do really want to know how he feels about the friggin' overflowing sexual tension between the two blonds. It's almost irritating how obvious they make it.

His face kind of scrunches up, and it hurts again, that one feeling rising up in my chest. "Well, I mean, kind of. Haven't they made out or something? No, wait. I think they've actually fucked, dude. Kenny told me," he retorts, and I just look in the opposite direction to hide how the obvious distaste in his words affects me.

"I dunno," and then I go silent. I want to go back to my thoughts, the ones where I forget about Wendy and her perfect skin and sweet scent, and only think of how Stan acts when he's just around… _me. _Like maybe, I'm enough to keep him happy. I know that I'm not, though. Or why would he be with her? I know that he smiles a lot more with me, and he laughs a lot harder and a lot longer. But when he's with her…

"Kyle, come on, man. Seriously, you can't just – I don't like it when you're all quiet. It's usually like a little bomb is about to go off," but I look over at him once more, his blue eyes all on me, his attention to _me, _and for a moment, I feel content. "But honestly, right now, you look like you're just sad. And it's totally bothering me. So… fucking quit it and talk," he finishes, wrapping one arm all the way around my shoulders as we continuing walking. We're less than a block away from the Marsh residence, and I'm sure that once we're there, he'll just focus on killing Hammers while playing Halo, and he'll stop worrying. I don't want him to worry about me, I just want him to smile… okay, that's bullshit. I want him to be so worried and fucking overflowing with concern that he throws himself on me and kisses me bat-shit senseless against a nearby tree.

But that's why my feelings are disgusting. Because that would never happen, because I have a dick. And once again, that means I'm completely handicapped from ever kissing and/or fucking the very incarnate of perfection.

"Did Cartman go too far today? Kyle, come on, talk to me," his voice is lower than usual, quieter, like he's being careful… or maybe it's just me. Yeah, it's just me. But he's… god, he's so fucking perfect. All I can think about right now is how much I wanna lean forward and kiss him… and now I can only dream of what that would feel like, to press my lips against his and him to be willing to press back.  
>"No, Stan, really," I give a sheepish smile in return, eyebrows upturned in guilt, and he just stares at me in discontentment. He looks away after a moment, dark bangs swaying away from his contrasted eyes, and his house is right there, so very close.<p>

"Kyle, freaking stop it," I hear him mutter, moving a hand to rub over an eyebrow, a nervous habit he's been developing since the sixth grade. I tilt my head in misunderstanding.

"What?"

"Stop making that face," he says, his voice deep and kind of wrecked with obvious unease.

"The fuck, man. This is my _face, _so don't give me that," I say back to him, letting my lips upturn a little at the corners. I feel the warmth of his arm slip away from my shoulders, and it kind of stings at me, so the small smile that had been beginning to form gently dissolves. We're in the driveway now, and I watch him as his pace quickens, and a pale hands wraps itself around the doorknob and presses forward without hesitating.

Stan's mother walks over happily, and grins as she starts off about dinner or something of ill importance. Her son just writes her off with a small response of acknowledgement and a half-hearted wave, and I follow him upstairs in silence.

When we're in his room, we both drop off our backpacks onto the floor, and I feel an intense gaze from the guy on the other side of the room. I sigh, because, fuck, I know that he totally wants to know whatever the hell is going through my head, and it's bothering him. After all, I _was _quiet the entire walk home, and I basically ignored him during sixth and seventh period… so I decide to be blunt, like an asshole.

"Stan, stop looking at me like that. It's creepy."

I can hear his surprise, "I wasn't looking at you, dude."

"Yeah, man, I could tell," I glance over at him, and notice what seems to be the smallest trace of a puerile pout gracing his pale features. I try not to smile, but fail, and I start to laugh when his eyebrows tilt downwards and he frowns, quite visually offended at my remark.

"Dude, shut up!" he yells, but suddenly he's smiling. His hands are placed on his hips in a oddly feminine way, just randomly, and it evokes even harder chuckles to bubble up from me. "Goddamn it, you're really gonna get it, Kyle," he threatens, reaching down and unzipping his backpack. I merely hop onto his bed as he unloads some text books and papers that he'd need to work on over the weekend, and I fall flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Kyle?" my eyes are half-lidded, and I'm kind of sleepy. Stan's bed is actually pretty damn comfortable. It's fluffy, unlike mine, since mom is always going off about how a stiff mattress is better for your posture than a fluffy one. I don't even think she'd like me sleeping on this thing if she knew how comfortable it was, but in the end, I do always stand up straight. I don't know if my bed has much to do with it, though, since I've probably spent more nights in this one than in my own.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think that they, like… ‒ I don't know."

I sit up slowly, eyebrows knitted together, confused at what he's saying. He's not kneeled over anymore, he's standing, and he's looking straight at me again from across the room, his papers and books scattered carelessly. It takes everything I have not to avert my eyes from his. "What, man?" I ask, my tone just a little higher than I would like it to be.

"I don't know. Do you think that they actually… enjoy it?"

"Stan, you're confusing me," I mutter, very slowly rotating my chin, until my face is pointed to the floor, eyes examining the carpet. I don't want to look into his eyes. I don't want to see how he looks at me, because it's not that same tender gaze that he gives to Wendy. I don't want him to love her.

He says something, but I'm too busy thinking to completely pay attention. I don't look up at him, at his tall stature, his lanky body that still manages to be kind of ripped from football. He's grown a lot, too, since he hit that growth spurt freshman year. He's about three inches taller than me, and it pisses me off a bit.

I hear him step closer, "Kyle?"

I look up, "yeah? Sorry, man. I'm kinda spacing today," I laugh a little at the end, hoping maybe to lighten the mood, to extinguish that one face he's giving me, but it doesn't work. "What'd you say earlier?" he glares, and I quickly look to the ground once more. The floor makes me feel less anxious, doesn't make me feel so uncompleted, like his gaze makes me feel. Because… god, I want _all_ of him.

"Kyle, you're fucking doing it again," he sighs, and I can hear his footsteps getting close to where I'm sitting. "I was just saying, uhm ‒ do you think that Kenny and Butters… that they don't ‒ that maybe, they enjoy it?"

My head snaps up in shock, "what?"

He looks like he regrets bringing it up, but I don't notice it much. I'm focusing on how he's less than two feet away from where I'm sitting, and how much energy and willpower it takes for me not to stare or even glance at his crotch, not even once. And it's really, really fucking difficult.

"What, Stan? They might enjoy… wait, are we talking about them fucking? Or what?" I ask, confused, and Stan looks toward his window in an embarrassed way, and the corners of my lips upturn into a smile. He's precious.

"Forget it," he says, and I protest in frustration and curiosity.

"No, come on, dude," I lean forward with insistence, "you know that you can ask me anything," I say, and he looks back to me, before collapsing his ass right next to me on the bed. His thigh is touching mine, and our shoulders graze each other momentarily, but I'm sure that I'm the only one to even make note of it.

I feel like I can get away with looking at him right now, just studying his boyish features and his cheekbones sculpted perfectly, the way his eyebrows are just a little too thin for a guy, and how his eyelashes are just a little long and a little dark. His lips are pale, though. They never seem to be chapped, which shows that he takes mildly good care of himself. And as I look at him, the typical, icy-white complexion belonging to someone who lives in South Park, I wrap an arm around his shoulders and squeeze gently. I know I can get away with it, because we've always been just a little too touchy, even for best friends.

And then he looks at me.

And, fuck, why do his eyes have to be _that _color?

"Stan?" I ask once more.

"I'm just saying," he murmurs, probably the quietest sentence he's ever spoken, "they must really care about each other to… to want to be that close, you know? I mean, I've just heard that it… it really hurts." His voice picks up more strength, and part of me hates it, and I kind of miss the vulnerability in his tone before. "Something that sounds that ‒ that _difficult, _must really feel good, right? It's kind of messed up."

I don't know why he's approaching this topic with so much sensitivity, so much of a foreign emotion in his face. Well, I suppose I see this expression whenever Stan catches sight of an animal on the side of the road, it's fur all scattered around and it's body all mangled. It's like sadness, but… more tender. More caring, more… more like he wishes he could do something about it.

"Dude, is something bothering you?" I ask, genuinely worried for him. He looks at me again, "did something happen with Wendy?" because, it's _always _Wendy. How many times has he made ‒ god, _this _face, and blamed it on her? It… I'd never hurt him like that. I never want him to make this face because of me.

His expression turns momentarily sour, "you have to bring her up?" the words are soft, because he's not actually angry, but they're still spat out with distaste. "It's not her."

"What is it, then? Why are you worrying about that kind of thing?" I almost laugh, because Stan's current facial expression of distress is actually starting to get to me, but I don't want him to know that.

His eyes are boring into mine now, too, and I want to lean forward with every fiber in my body.

But I don't.

Especially when I feel the pads of Stan's figure tips graze against mine, the hand that's hanging off his other shoulder limply. My arm is still around him, after all. I don't want his comforting touch to go away, as his hand slowly grasps mine and intertwines our fingers. We've held hands before, it's not really anything new… but it still brings a small smile to my face. It's pained, however.

"Stan?" I mutter, tilting my head.

"Man, I wonder what it'd feel like," I hear him say, but he's staring at the ground now, too. And the very curiosity in his voice, combined with some kind of ‒ longing wouldn't be the right word, or… I don't even know, I just… it gives me this bubble of warmth that only Stan ever gives me.

But then again, Wendy probably gets that, too.

So when I feel the pressure of Stan gently removing my arm from around him, it pains me. It hurts when he's not touching me in some way, even if it's just our thighs squished together as we sit next to each other on his bed.

I'm looking at the floor, as is he, and my elbows rest on my knees as my hands uphold my chin. I sigh; Wendy. He's in love. I know he is, he looks at her like she's his world, his eyes light up, he treats her passionately yet tenderly. She's soft and curvy, sweet but probably ‒ I fucking hate to imagine it, but she's probably good in bed, too. It just feels like it would be that much worse for me, after all. I wonder if they've… god, have they had sex in this bed? The one we're both sitting on right now?

And my thoughts can only get worse and worse, and they stop dead in their tracks as Stan gently wraps his hand around my wrist. My green eyes glance over to him casually, like he's just asking for my attention, but the look he gives me makes everything in the world come to a halt.

He fucking takes my breath away, I swear.

"Stan," I whine, because I don't understand why he's looking at me like that, or why he's acting like this. And it hurts, because I feel like he's unintentionally teasing me.

But then I feel the weight on the bed shift, and I turn my head to him, my eyes broad, because I don't know what's going on.

I feel the soft pressure of his lips pressing against mine, and the slow transition of Stan pushing me back on the bed. I'm not one to argue ‒ my head is spinning, and I can feel the hot rise of tears swelling up within my eyes, simply from this new physical exposure of him that's being revealed to me. He closes his mouth over mine completely, his tongue invading my mouth, and I moan quietly, trying not to reciprocate too much. I know he'll regret this. I feel a tear slide down my cheek, and I quickly turn my head, my cheek grazing the blanket, and interrupting him.  
>"What ‒ Stan, what are you doing?" I'm scared my voice will crack, but it doesn't. I'm looking away, because maybe, if he sees me from this angle, he won't notice the tears dotting my eyes, or how conflicted my face must look right now. Because this is wrong, and I'm sure he'll regret this, and he'll act different around me. He'll notice that my lips aren't all big and soft like his girlfriend's, and that my eyes aren't that same oceanic blue, like hers. He'll see that I'm not the same, and I'm not worth it.<p>

"I ‒…" is all that I hear, and I squeeze my eyes shut. His hands are still wrapped around my wrists, and he has me pinned, his body shadowing mine as he crouches above me. I don't understand, though. "Please don't freak out, Kyle," I perceive in my ear, softly, cautiously, like he's trying to console a cat that he's saving from the very top of a tree. How can I _not _freak out? I love him. I love him so much, and he's probably just gonna throw me away after this. It won't be the same, he'll feel disgusted. He doesn't know what he's doing.

But I feel the touch of his hand against my chin, gently turning my face toward his. He's looking right at me, those eyes boring into mine, and he kind of looks… like he's scared. Like a naughty little kid, who's mother is scolding him for tracking mud into the house. "Why are you ‒" I try to whisper, but he swallows the words as his lips enclose mine effortlessly, again, and again. Like he doesn't want to answer.

Do I even want to hearwhy he's doing this? Maybe he's just curious, and I'm the only guy he feels comfortable doing this with… maybe he wants confirmation that he's not a fag. That he's in love with Wendy, and that she's the only person he wants to hold, to kiss.

I don't want to be used.

But it's _Stan. _How am I supposed to push him away? I ‒ I can't.

I feel one hand being removed from my wrist, and I don't try to pull away from him. I don't think that I know how to, anyways. It slowly tugs itself forward to rest on my cheek, and his thumb wipes away a rouge droplet that's sliding down my face carelessly. He's still kissing me, over and over again, and my body is still flat against the soft blankets of his bed, and I have a big problem pitching in my pants. He's not quite laying on me, so he probably can't tell, but my face flushes with the idea of it.

"Stan," I hear myself quietly whisper into his lips. I feel him start to move away from my face, just barely, his breathe still lingering so close to me. "Why are you doing this," I barely manage to whimper, as I can feel tear after tear beginning to dominate my cheeks. Maybe, this time, he'll actually answer.

His dark bangs are overhanging his eyes now, and his mouth forms into a frown, eyebrows tilted upwards. I'm no longer pinned, it'd be easy for me to push him off of me, grab my bag and run out the door without looking back. It'd teach him never to tease me like this again, hell, it might even save the friendship that he's endangering. But then I feel the gentle touch of his hand as it wraps around mine, and I see the sincerity in his features.

"Look, man," he starts softly, glancing away from me. "I know that this is kind of gay," yeah, Stan, _kind of. _"And it's possible that I might scar you for life here," I'm trying to pretend that I'm not left hanging on his every word, and that the way his voice is almost ‒ almost breaking a little bit isn't evident to me. That it doesn't make me want to lunge forward and swallow his every word, because… Stan seems kind of scared right now. Maybe even as scared as I am. "But I don't want ‒ I want to ‒ " he looks back to me, blue eyes serious, and I try to choke back a little sob. "I wanna kiss you, Kyle," and he stops, face falling even more so as he takes in my expression. "Please ‒ please don't look like I'm a bear that's about to eat you," he takes a deep breath, "please don't make that face, man."

"Stan, I don't think you understand," I mumble softly, and I lean forward, and wrap my arms around him as I rest my forehead in the crook of his neck. I hear his breath hitch.

I don't even get a chance to explain anything, to tell him that this is probably just a phase, that he's probably just curious, that it kind of _hurts _that he's doing this, and I'm not tearing up because I'm fucking scared of him. I'm just ‒ I don't want to lose him.

But anything I'm about to do is halted, as my best friend places his hands on mine and slowly brings them to his chest. I lift my face from his shoulder, and glance up at him; he has tears in his eyes. And I still don't understand why those dark eyes would ever become blurred with water, especially because of me.

"Kyle, look, I'm not ‒ not trying to ‒ god, I don't wanna lose you, dude," I hear him say, and I'm tired of not understanding. I'm tired of hearing him say such confusing things, and all I want is for him to kiss me again, because at least he'd stop looking so upset.

So that's what I do. It's selfish; I understand if he throws me away later. If he's disgusted by how his mere curiosity is actually my sexual preference. I'll get it, I'll understand, even if it feels like my heart is being ripped out. But right now, I want him to stop making this face, the one that Wendy smacks onto his complexion all the time.

"Stan," I moan quietly, enclosing my mouth over his, gently nibbling at his bottom lip. He presses back willingly, and that means that I can nonchalantly wrap my arms around his neck, dragging his body with mine as I slink my back against the bed. His male anatomy is pressed up against my own, and I feel a tear slip from his cheek and plop right onto mine. It surprises me a little bit, but it makes me kiss him harder, with more emotion, even though I'm afraid of what will happen afterwards. I drag one hand through his hair and finger each little black wisp, and they're unexpectedly soft.

"K-Kyle, I'm not trying to ‒" I hear him try to say, but I don't let him. I don't want him to reject this, because _he's _the one that started it, and I'm not able to see him get up and leave, because I think I might break.

So I thrust my body upwards, closer to him. "_Ah _‒ K-Kyle," he moans. I press my lips hungrily against his, and slip in my tongue and invade his mouth. I know he's enjoying it ‒ he's not pushing me away yet. I can feel a little problem arising in his pants, as well. But I'm so fucking scared right now. I should've ran out the door when I had the chance, because then, later on, he would've thanked me and we would've gone back to being best friends. But now… what's gonna happen?

I blink; he's suddenly looking down at me, eyes open, now pretty much dried, but he's examining how I haven't stopped crying yet. In fact, I'm crying friggin' buckets. He backs up quickly, moving his body upwards, basically sitting upright, "goddamn, Kyle, fucking quit crying," he says, and I can tell he's worried. I look at him, and can't stop myself from releasing a little sob.

Fuck, I really wish we could've just started playing Halo when we got home.

I drag a hand upwards to wipe away the tears roughly, and use the other hand to support myself as I sit up on the bed, trying to take in a deep breath to calm myself.

I can't look at him anymore, or I'll probably start wailing like a little kid who's fallen on their bike for the first time. All I want to do right now is curl up into a little ball under Stan's blankets and hide away, pretending like everything is okay, just breathing in the scent of his sheets.

"Kyle, did I scare you that bad?" he murmurs, coming closer to me, moving a hand and placing it on my shoulder. I'm kind of amazed that he still thinks this is his fault, and not mine, being a total fucking stereotypical kid who falls in love with his best friend. I never thought that my best friend would get curious, though. But it's still my fault.

"No, y-you didn't," I try to say, but my voice is breaking. I don't care, though. "It's not you, Stan, I'm not fucking _a-afraid _of you," I muster, dragging my hand across my eyes vigorously. Why am I such a crybaby? "Dude, you're just gonna regret this, and nothing is gonna be the same between us." This time, my words sound much less waterlogged.

I don't wanna look over at his face, I don't wanna see his reaction.

But he takes my hand, and goddammit, now I _have _to.

"I'm not… Kyle, I'm not gonna regret this. I mean, I get it if I freaking you out all of a sudden, and I probably should've talked to you about it first," he suddenly looks all guilty, and it kind of breaks my heart. "But I ‒ I love you, man. I do," and then he gives me this look.

And it's nothing like the look that he gives Wendy.

But… I kind of like _this _look.

So when he leans forward again, this time, I end up smiling a little bit. I slowly lean forward, as well. Our lips mesh together like we've both wanted this for fucking ages... and I can't really speak for him, but I sure know that _I _have.

And, really, I don't think much else matters, as long as he's happy right now. Because… it's _Stan. _My best friend. The one that's never going to leave me, because it's always been just _us_. So, as he's leaning over me and his arm is around my waist, slowly lowering me back down, I'm not worrying. Maybe a little, about how everything is going to pan out... but Stan isn't going to leave me. And that means, as I hear a small, "_I really love you, you know," _being whispered into my ear as he begins to kiss my neck, I'm not gonna start crying again.

I have to hold back a grin, actually.


End file.
